Inspiring

Friday afternoon, I had the very special pleasure of attending a Mandala dissolution ceremony honoring the Compassion Buddha. Monks from the Ngari Institute spent three days creating this exquisitely fine and intricate work of art. It was then swept into a pile, distributed among attendees (anyone who so desired), with the remains scattered into Monument Creek.

Why destroy something so beautiful, you may ask? To show the importance of sharing compassion with all beings and reflect the impermanence of life. It also encouraged everyone in attendance (and the world) to let, just as we do each breath that comes, every little thing, joyful, beautiful, sad, and angry, GO. To the winds. To the water. Let it ALL go.

Before the ceremony, I had the privilege to sit with one of the monks and ask about the mandala. It was quite fascinating! The mandala is a two dimensional representation of a three dimensional house or temple, with the Compassion Buddha at the center. Each of the four directions is represented, with food and flowers offered to the Buddha. The copper cups hold water, two of which for cleansing (the mouth and feet), the third, with an added flower, for perfuming the body. This is an offering of our best selves to the Compassion Buddha. The water also represented rain; as rain falls, it cleanses the body, not only of grime, but of unhealthy thoughts and patterns in the mind. The more it is cleansed, the more it benefits the individual and the world, spreading compassion to our minds and others. So wonderful!

Life is a bit claustrophobic with all the lying on the couch I am doing, every moment an attempt to keep my foot from throbbing with pain. My mind is a circus: what I have been able to do, what I can do now, what I will be able to do once fully healed. I watch a lot of television, movies mostly. I’m reading a little, more to come because I finally found a book I like – such a picky reader.

I am praying a lot, not for me, I am fine, I think. It might depend on who you ask, however, definitely. The prayers are for a friend, who is far younger than I and in critical condition. Scary to the point of tears: for her family, for her wee children. I have never spoken such fervent words to God, the universe, whatever and whomever is out there. Space aliens? I believe I am being heard. I pray the answer will be YES.

The new year is here. I have a resolution, of sorts, to eat as low carb and high veg as possible for the month of January, though if I can sustain it longer, I am not going to argue with my willpower. My sweets to protein to vegetable ratio the past month as far from ideal or tummy soothing as is mathematically possible, so it seems. Math, however, is not my strongest subject.

This is not a resolution, but I am happy to report that I’ve exercised every day since my surgery and continue to be amazed at what works my entire body without causing my left foot too much anguish. On that front, it is healing rather nicely! My surgically modified toes are rock-hard with swelling but better than before. My foot previously doing it’s best imitation of a Frankenstein stitched balloon. Not great.

And this before I go – Juniper’s shoes! They light up! To see her walk in them is positively chuckle inducing. I am super keen for the day we walk together in the snow, maybe in a month or so? Yes, please.

The first full day of my stay, that helicopter from the DAPL side flew in low circles for hours, observing the camp.

More than 500 members of the Clergy came from all over the world. The banner is from Virginia. The man speaking above was from Polynesia.

A ten minute walk from my car, this hill was the only place I had cell reception. I was mostly out of reach.

An upside down flag is a sign of distress.

More than 300 flags from different Native Nations line the boundaries and entry as a sign of support.

There were many efforts at intimidation. This SUV from the DAPL side was in lock step with me and three others as we walked the boundary. A host of men with binoculars observing the camp, day in day out. In addition to the helicopter circling camp in daylight hours, a plane with its lights off circled throughout the night. They also had bright spotlights shining on the camp from dusk to dawn.

Burned Army dump trucks on “our” side but believed (though not confirmed) to be the work of DAPL, and some person’s effort to make them peaceful.

My spirit animals knew before I did, arriving by the dozens two evenings in a row, to flap and caw and bring me to the realization that I had work to do, in North Dakota as a Water Protector.

I had thought about it in early summer but resisted, mostly because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I worked part-time in the Oil and Gas industry in college. Try as we might to be as green as possible, like powering our home with renewables and driving a super fuel efficient car (42 mpg on this trip!), it is still lubed and fueled by oil. I take vacations on air planes. I heat my home with natural gas. What right do I have to take a stand against something so critical to my everyday comfort and being?

It was a gnawing in my belly. The Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) was moved from a location upstream from Bismarck due to the major threat it would pose to the city’s water supply should there be a breach. By doing so, the the Standing Rock Sioux were essentially told that the quality of their water was of little consequence in comparison to the good people who reside in the state capital. I could not abide it, so I went, to offer moral support and help however I could.

It is a 13-14 hour drive from my neck of the woods, so I rose early and drove all day, buoyed by more crows, eagles, hawks, and falcons, flying so near to the car as to make me believe that their wings were propelling me forward. I arrived to a checkpoint spectacle of giant FBI pick-ups, police vans, and flashing lights worthy of a Radiohead concert. Before I was allowed to proceed, a surprisingly kindly police officer (there is much documentation to the contrary) asked me my intentions and glanced through the windows at the contents of my car.

A few minutes down the road, I arrived at the Oceti Sakowin Camp and was greeted with a hearty, “Welcome home!” I cried at this, of course. You know me. Exhausted and exhilarated to finally be there, I fumbled around a bit, listening to the Natives drum and sing, feeling the energy and thrum of so many people united for a common purpose. After a time, and getting the car stuck in an abandoned fire pit (also quickly nullifying my intention of being entirely independent during my stay by having to ask for help getting out, rats!), I found a spot to park the car, which would also serve as my camp: kitchen, changing room, bedroom, dining room, and storage. All in a Mini Cooper!

That night, and every night after, I slept poorly, a function of sleeping on a bucket seat, the cold, and the drone of the small plane flying round and round and round, in constant surveillance of the camp from the DAPL side.

Each morning, shortly before dawn, a booming voice announced, “Wake up relatives, you have work to do. Wake up relatives, you are making history. Wake up peaceful warriors, Mother Earth needs you.” And so we rose. I prayed and meditated each day, first with the 500 members of the clergy who came to show their support, then during the women-led Water Ceremony, and finally during the beautiful Horse and Fire Lighting Ceremony, which also saw the historical (and I believe first time) unification of Native American Tribes for a common purpose.

Every moment was meaningful. I met so many wonderful people and never once felt unsafe. I smoked from a Native’s pipe. I offered tobacco to the water and fire, to strengthen the potency of my prayer, our shared hopes. I worked hard, each day, all day, after prayers until sundown and the camp went mostly dark, sorting and organizing clothing donations, helping people find what they needed, always with a laugh and a smile – a warm coat, a sweater, shoes, a pair of boots, taking only the shortest of breaks to pee and grab a quick bite to eat.

When I felt weary or tired and the compressor on the refrigeration truck wasn’t loudly thrumming, I heard Tsosie, the voice of the camp. A Navajo, come up from New Mexico, who told stories, relayed the daily news, gave big announcements and small, of meetings and decisions, of people offering rides, those who lost or found items, a key, a wallet, a cell phone. He and others sang and drummed after sundown, the camp alive with their unique song. His voice, at once grounding and uplifting, was the absolute highlight of my stay. I am forever grateful to him and our shared bear hugs.

And now, for you, should you wish to go:

Be as self sufficient as possible. Bring all of your own supplies with plenty to share, including water. I was the goofy white lady handing out candy, ear plugs, and packages of baby wipes (there’s no running water or bathing facilities).

It is COLD at night, very cold, and soon enough, it will be cold AND windy all the live-long day. Be prepared. Bring lots of layers. Have super-warm bedding. Keep your water wrapped in bedding to keep from freezing outside.

Like any community, there are a mix of good and not so good people. I left candy and baby wipes outside the Mini, but not a single person took any without me actually giving it to them. Then, a guy, with whom I spent a considerable amount of time helping find pants and a belt, took my water bottle. A woman sorting clothes with me got her backpack stolen. If it is valuable or meaningful to you, keep it on your person or secured in your car or tent.

I was amazed at the number of white people wandering around like tourists. The camp is not an attraction. We, especially as white people, are there to serve and stay out of the way, not vice-versa. Give as much as you can. Don’t be a jerk with your own agenda.

Pick up after yourself; leave no trace. If you camp in a tent, please remove the stakes from the ground upon your departure. Nobody wants to to trip on their way to the toilet in the middle of the night or puncture a tire. Luckily, I found a shovel to dig up the ones careless people left behind.

Should you wish to help:

The camp is in pretty constant need of seasoned fire wood.

Please, do NOT send useless clothing. I was absolutely appalled by the amount received on a daily basis. The Natives have been screwed over a million ways to Sunday, and sending stained undergarments, ripped, torn, and soiled clothing, rumpled prom dresses (really?!), and sexy short-shorts, is, in my view, yet another a slap in the face.

For a long time now, the hubster and I haven’t bought each other gifts. We’ve got the love of our dreams and the life we want, so it seemed unnecessary. Until. Until we bought this house and have been working almost every single day for thirteen weeks to fix it up. Knowing that we have about thirteen more. Having that giant dumpster in the back yard for more than two months, big time stinky smelly from a laborer tossing something other than construction waste in it, something oh-so FOUL. Hoping for favorable winds so we could open a window or take a break out back. Yeah, blech.

And then the realization that our birthdays are our FORTY-FIFTH! As a good friend said, halfway to ninety. Holy shit. So we bought a telescope for our mutual delight at star gazing and imagining what if? We looked at Jupiter Wednesday night and three of its moons, Mars, too, from our own, sweet smelling, dumpster-free yard. The wonders of the universe and height of splendor, peeps, the absolute height!

And because I don’t have the attachment for my camera, YET, I snapped photos of my yard gazing while the hubster’s eye was on the sky. Good times, happy nights, and more to come!